


In a Bad Way

by NotHereNJ (efficaceous)



Series: Harm's Way [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Prison, Light Angst, M/M, alternate universe - psych ward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:54:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27462268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/efficaceous/pseuds/NotHereNJ
Summary: Mickey is not a silent creature, and being forced to keep his own counsel results in more frustration.Or... No Other Way, from the other side.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Harm's Way [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2004793
Comments: 51
Kudos: 77





	1. Running crazy/Around your suburbs

**Author's Note:**

> Italics are Mickey's self talk.   
> Bold + Italics are what he writes on his white-board.

[ Dirty Imbecile - The Happy Fits ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=62zttCJT1Sg)

When Mickey woke up in the hospital for the first time, he honestly thought he was dead. Nothing hurt, not his knees, or his back, or even his chronic, low-grade migraine from one of Terry’s pistol whippings when he was 15.

The room was spotlessly clean and shining bright. Weirder still, as he looked down, his own chronically dingy arms, bitten nails, and filthy hands were miraculously clean, the skin revealed shockingly white.

The only explanation his weary mind could fathom was that he was dead, and this was heaven. That somehow, somewhere, there had been a cosmic mistake and he, Mickey Milkovich, had been let into heaven. He fell asleep again before he’d even realized his eyes were sliding shut.

\---

The second time he woke up, he understood what had happened. He was in a hospital, he wasn't dead, and that was bad news. The worse news, the fucking worst news, was that Iggy, that eternal moron, had called the EMT’s when he found Mickey hanging lifeless in his closet. The EMT’s had come, but balked at the pile of illegal weapons in the living room and promptly called the police. 

Now, somehow, the crime had been pinned on Mickey, and he was not only alive, but also having to deal with the repercussions of Terry’s fucking actions once again. 

Mickey didn’t have any intentions of taking that fall. When he’d tied the knot, he had truly wanted to die, and finding out he’d failed was yet another bitter swig from life’s shittiest bottle. He ripped out his IV, tried yelling and screaming, except nothing came out except little grunts and groans and pain. So much pain. He scratched his arms, tried to roll off the bed, bucking and twisting. 

Nurses came rushing it, one quickly sedated him. 

The next time he woke up, he was in soft restraints.

\---

As he lay, wrists and ankles bound to the bed rails, unable to speak, a slow drip of fluids and medications coming in through the newly reinforced needle in his elbow, Mickey had time to think back. 

To the last week. The soft-spoken head-shrinker who’d come to see him in the ER had talked about suicide being a permanent solution to a temporary problem, but that fucker didn’t know what he was talking about. Living with Terry was the permanent problem, and his own terminal stupidity in not locking the door, inviting Adam over, ever thinking he could act on his most shameful impulses- it was like the world’s crappiest domino set, where the first touch set off a cascade of shit. 

Where had it started? Not meeting Adam, far before that. Maybe in elementary school, when he’d stolen a kid’s pencil every day for three months straight, just keeping the crummy things in a little plastic baggie in his room to think about and stare at. In the end, he’d had to beat the kid up when he’d finally accused Mickey of stealing his stuff.  _ Of course _ Mickey’d been stealing his stuff. The issue was the kid hadn’t noticed it was Mickey, not for  _ months _ . And then he’d been accused in front of the other kids, and what was left for him to do? He knocked out the kid’s permanent front teeth, and when he got home, Terry had clapped him on the back and handed him a tallboy. He was 8.

Maybe it was earlier, the beginning of this mess. Maybe it was when his mother would hug him and he’d melt into her arms, just a little guy; he’d always been smaller than other kids. But flying up the front steps in the afternoon to see his Ma had been the highlight of the day. She’d be kneeling on the porch and catch him up in her arms.

As long as Terry wasn’t around. 

She’d squeeze him and tickle him until he was practically pissing himself, then they’d wait together for Mandy’s bus to show up, and repeat the process. That might have been the best time of his life, tripping up those broken stairs, secure in the knowledge that his Ma was waiting at the top for him.

Until she wasn’t. One day she was there, and the next day she wasn’t. And the next day. Her clothes were still in the closet for a week or so before Terry got Jamie and Iggy to bag them up and trash them. Mickey and Mandy had stood watching, too scared to try and steal a scarf or sweater to hold onto. Even at five and four, they already knew that holding onto anything from their Ma was a bad idea.

In the present, Mickey closed his eyes as the hot wetness flowed down his face. No one was there to see it, and his hands were bound, so he turned, squirming, until he could wipe the shameful tears away on his pillow. 

\---

Pregnant. He had time to think some more, and it was making less and less sense. Some candystriper had been in, spoon feeding him some truly terrible broth, and now he was left to ponder his life while some fuckin’ doctor in a white coat made decisions about his life.

In the meantime,  _ pregnant _ . 

Sure, he’d fucked the Russian, with a gun to his head. But so had thirty or forty other dudes that week, including fuckin’ Terry, more likely than not. Even if she was bangin’ the other guys with rubbers, the odds weren’t overwhelming that it was Mickey’s ( _ mentally, he grimaced _ ) kid. 

Plus, she coulda just gotten it sucked out. Why hadn’t she? It’s not like Terry had been fuckin’ overjoyed at the thought of his wayward youngest son knockin a broad up. All he knew about her was that she’d been sold by her father, and now she was a whore. She was a victim as much as he was, though he hated the idea of sympathizing with someone who had a hand in ruining his life.

But she was just a chess piece, a domino in the sequence that had led to that last night. Cause again, he had ruined his own life, or god had ruined his life when he made Mickey… the way he was.  _ Weak _ . 

His train of thought was interrupted by one of the many doctors who’d been in and out over the week, looking at his neck and down his throat with a scope, one who’d marveled at his lack of a gag reflex. He’d smirked, unable to comment. Fuckin’ amatuer. 

“So, Mr. Milkovich, we’ve done about as much as we can to stabilize you medically.”

Mickey nodded, trying to get the guy to the point sooner than never.

“Tomorrow morning you’re being transferred, so you can receive further help. Behavioral help.”

He could feel his eyebrows shooting up, unable to school his expression into disinterest. If he’d been able to talk, he’d be questioning, snarking, fuckin’ cursing.

The doctor seemed to understand his confusion, because he explained, “Behavioral help means help for your mental illness.”

_ A looney bin. Great.  _

Mickey sat back, unable to cross his arms, but wanting to.

“We have a very good behavioral health program here at the hospital but they insisted…” His voice trailed off and his eyes skittered away from Mickey’s face.

_ What the fuck was going on? _

“It’s the Prison Mental Health Unit you’re being transferred to. They’ll work with therapy and medication until you are- well, until you’re better.”

There was more there, but tied down and mute, Mickey couldn’t get the answers he wanted.

Fuck. Prison. Fuck Terry, fuck Iggy, fuck the Russian, fuck Adam, and most of all, fuck himself. 

For the thousandth time in his short life, Mickey wished he were dead.


	2. There's a bounty/On my neck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Great, you’re fine. Now fuck off.

[ Paranoid - Houses ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4f1uryo5TXQ)

The transfer to the prison psych unit was pretty painless: he went from the soft restraints to the cuffs easily enough, and then once they led him into the new location, he was freed. Mickey spent the whole process thinking about how he could turn this to his advantage, but every scheme and technique he thought of inevitably led back to Terry and what had happened.

His first stop wasn’t his new cell, but some new therapist. Didn’t matter. A cell was a cell was a cell, no matter what they called it or what color the walls were. The therapist wasn’t actually a doctor but some scattered-looking woman with short, frizzy hair named Cynthia. Instead of greeting him, she took the folder the CO had brought and studied it silently for the first few minutes.

“Ok, you have newly diagnosed major depressive disorder with generalized anxiety disorder. You’re clearly a risk for self harm, so we’ll watch you closely. Not sure why they had you on xanax when you’re clearly not allowed narcotics. We’ll swap that out for buspar, and increase your celexa.”

The words flowed past Mickey like piss down a shower drain. 

_ Meds, changing them, it didn’t fuckin’ matter.  _

“Mr. Milkovich, do you understand what I just told you?”

Mickey nodded sullenly. 

“Do you have any questions?”

Mickey shrugged and held his hands up, indicating that even if he did, how could he ask them? 

_ Dumb bitch. _

“Oh, right, about that.” She reached into a drawer and produced a small white board, about the size and thickness of a cheap magazine, plus one black marker. They both sat and looked back and forth at the items for a moment, before she leaned over and buzzed someone in another room.

“Marissa, can I get a roll of cloth tape in here?”

Marissa, whoever the fuck she was, appeared and handed over the roll of tape, which Cynthia used to make a tether, linking the board and the marker.

“Now Mr. Milkovich, if you misuse these items in any way, they will be taken away.”

Misuse them? How the fuck was he meant to do that? Draw dirty pictures for the other zombies in here? Saw through the bars on the windows with the cheap composite material? Not a chance.

With solemnity that seemed wildly out of place, she finally handed him the board. “Any questions?”

Just to be a dick, he uncapped the marker and carefully wrote out his answer, flipping the board to show her.

**_No._ **

With that business complete, Cynthia released him, calling someone who wasn’t a CO but was instead dressed in maroon medical scrubs to lead him to a group session. A quick glance around showed no one Mickey needed worry too much about. He was still gonna need some muscle in this joint, so while some nutball bitched about family shit, Mickey appraised the men in the room. There were some big guys, one very heavy dude, all muscled up, but all of them also were just this side of drooling, zoned out. Useless to him.

There was a short, skinny blonde guy staring creepily at him who Mickey immediately decided to avoid at all costs. Stay out of the bathroom when the guy was there, skip his table at meals, not even nodding acquaintances. He couldn’t afford it. 

The talking finally ended, not that Mickey had paid it much mind, declining to introduce himself. Instead of going to watch TV or scope out his new cell, he laid the whiteboard on the table and popped the cap off the marker, sketching randomly, just testing out the angles of the marker, seeing what it could do.

Everytime a guitar player picked up a new guitar, they played the same little tune. It varied from person to person, but everyone had one. Artists were the same, or at least Mickey thought they might be. Most signed their names, fuckin egocentric assholes, to test out a new paint, brush, pen, or marker. But not Mickey. He drew a star. It was always a different star, maybe something from a logo he’d seen or off the flash sheet at the tattoo shop Iggy had cased last winter. 

There was no reason for the star, unless it was a dig at himself, at how no matter how good he was at drawing, or playing music, or doing anything, he’d never be a star, he’d always be trash. His father had beaten that into him starting as soon as his Ma had disappeared. Had died, he knew, even though none of them had ever talked about it.

The skin on the back of his neck prickled, and he looked up quickly, seeing a guy from the group standing in the doorway, swaying like he was about to fall out. 

  
_ Was he gonna have to call for help - and how would he even do that? _

But with a firm grip on the door, the young man seemed to gather himself, replying to Mickey’s unspoken question. 

_ Great, you’re fine. Now fuck off. _

Mickey went back to his drawing, only to be interrupted again.

“ So. Nice scarf.”

_ It’s a fucking bandage, asshole. _

The idiot who thought he was wearing a scarf in a place like this was tall and well-built, with fiery red hair and a splash of freckles across his face like a constellation of stars. Not that Mickey’d ever seen a real constellation, but the comparison persisted in his mind. Maybe it was his fixation on drawing stars. 

The ginger made another shitty remark about his bandage, about someone wanting to strangle him.

_ Not far off the mark. I wanted to strangle myself. _

“ Ok, so you were out on the mean streets and said the wrong shit to the wrong person, and they tried to wring your neck, literally. But what I can’t figure is how that ended you up here in wonderland.”

_ Wonderland? The cartoon shit Mandy had watched as a kid until the VHS tape wore out? _

Apparently the guy thought he didn’t even know what Alice in Wonderland was, which was fine, Mickey was accustomed to people thinking he was dumb. And then proving them wrong. Well, sometimes. Other times, he proved them right, in the worst ways, letting his rage and fear get the best of him and overrule his logic.

Mickey had a brain, it worked alright, or it had until Terry had decided to smash the shit out of his skull a number of times. Ever since the last time, it’d been a lot harder to keep his violence in check, maybe that was why he’d ended up in the fucking nuthouse.

The redhead was still yammering at him, Mickey realized with alarm. He’d totally spaced out. Now he was right beside Mickey’s seat, warm, damp breath gusting past Mickey’s ear, telling the world’s lamest joke. 

_ Ok, that was kinda funny.  _

Not that he would, or could, tell the guy. He felt his face contort into an unfamiliar half-smile, and bent over to his whiteboard, hearing the man leave at last.

_ Could that be the backup I need? Guy’s got muscles, ain’t half-way stupid neither.  _

Mickey didn’t need to decide quite yet. He could keep getting the lay of the land, check out a meal, see who ran shit in here. The only way he could avoid getting shanked by one of Terry’s minions was to either grow eyes in the back of his head or build his own network of defences.

The idea of getting shanked should have been scarier, but the idea was very cold and distant. Maybe they’d do what he hadn’t been able to-

He shook his head, not wanting to think back on that night, but being drawn in nonetheless. The fear that had him shivering, if it was a boy, and Terry treated the kid the way he’d treated Mickey, beating on him, would be bad enough, but then he’d had the horrible thought that it could be a girl and Terry would-

_ Fuck. Like Mandy. _

He rubbed his eyes, stomach growling. 

There was another thought, distant and painful in its own way. If it was a boy and Terry  _ didn’t  _ beat on it, like he’d beaten on Mickey. Cause Mickey was the one who was wrong, who was bad. He had never been able to figure out why Terry had hated him so much, even before his father had found out the truth about him. Maybe he’d been able to smell it on him like old vomit.

  
Terry hated Mickey, that much was clear. Didn’t need to know why. But the bitter truth was that  no one hated Mickey as much as Mickey hated himself. 


	3. If they catch me/They get a check

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Really, fucker? How’s that gonna work, me talkin’ on the phone?

[ I Don’t Know Where We Went Wrong - HOKO ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BQkrCtto-J0)

There were phones available for use, just like in big-boy prison. But Mickey had no one to call, so they never surfaced on his radar. Until one afternoon when he’d only been in for a few days, a tech came to find him.

“Milkovich, you gotta call.”

_Really, fucker? How’s that gonna work, me talkin’ on the phone?_

He arched an eyebrow, trying to make the guy realize the error he’d made, but either the guy was too stupid or too automated to realize the issue. Nothing. He slowly got up, following the tech in his stupid burgundy scrubs, as if they did any real medicine in this fucking place.

There was a chair next to the payphone on the wall, the handset resting on the little ledge below the machine. The tech waved him over, and Mickey sat, picking up the handset, unsure of who or what he would hear.

“Mickey, that you?”

_Iggy. Well, shit._

He waited, hoping someone had told Iggy he couldn’t talk, otherwise this was gonna be the most useless phone call on record.

“Oh, right, they said your throat's fucked up. Ok, so if it ain’t Mickey, hang up?” His brother paused, waiting for the dial tone. “Guess it is you. So you’re in the nuthouse, huh, what’s that like?”

_Seriously? Was the whole conversation gonna be Iggy asking him dumb shit he couldn’t answer? ‘It’s great, Igs. Good times, great food, soft beds.’ Moron._

“Well, I just wanted to tell ya, Dad’s got the Russian in your old room. She’s pukin’ every morning, so I guess she really is knocked up. But she’s still working, not full sex, just hand stuff. Terry said it was better for the- for the baby.”

Mickey winced, sliding forward until he could rest his forehead against the sharp edge of the plastic ledge below the phone, feeling the pressure on his skin, letting it ground him.

“That ain’t why I called, actually. Dad, well, I heard him talkin’ to one of his friends in the joint. He’s got plans for you, I guess. So you gotta be careful. Find someone to watch your back.”

_As if the thought hadn’t already occurred to me as soon as I got here._

Iggy got a clue, just usually too late for it to do any good.

“Yeah, ok. That’s all. Just watch yourself. An’ get better soon.”

The last words came out in a rush, the brotherly kindness unfamiliar to both of them. Maybe Iggy’d been encouraged by Mickey’s inability to speak, to mock him. 

“Bye, Mickey.”

Mickey sat up, and slowly hung up the receiver on the hook. So Terry had a plan for him? They were gonna be in for a fuckin surprise if they tried it. Mickey had nothing left to lose. It wasn’t true that he didn’t care about anything. He cared about nothing very much.

\---

At breakfast, Mickey was usually still half asleep. Whatever drugs they were feeding him had him hazy all the time, drowsy and dozing off anytime he was halfway horizontal.

One of the few good things about this place was the food- even if it wasn’t _good_ it was plentiful. Mickey took advantage as often as possible, adding calories to every item in any way possible, but at breakfast, mainly through sugar.

He’d also started to stash little snacks in his cell, mainly those packets of graham crackers they had out at all times. The cookies were dry as shit, crumbly and crunchy, but they stored well. There were at least 10 packages under his mattress, slowly being ground to dust every time he sat or laid down. Didn’t matter. Food was food.

Finding a breakfast table was another challenge. Some were full, which was fine. He didn’t want to sit and have to pretend to be interested in some fucker’s scintillating morning conversation. Some were empty, which appealed to him, but he knew that was a bad move. Sitting alone meant weakness; it meant he was an easy target. He needed someone to watch his back, and soon.

He finally settled on the table occupied by the redhead who’d joked with him, instead of commenting on his drawing. Annoying fucker, but looked strong. Maybe he could be the muscle to Mickey’s brains. But first Mickey would have to stop calling him _Orphan Annie_ in his head..

Sitting down, the guy was openly watching him, but Mickey paid no heed. 

A little back and forth with the board had his answer: Ian Gallagher.

_Gallagher, that was fine._

Mickey could work with that, the guy seemed smart enough to follow directions, trying to intuit Mickey’s meaning from facial expressions alone. That should save time, if it came down to a fight where it was the two of them against… against who? No one in here looked like a threat, but the real dangerous guys never did. 

Mickey finished his breakfast when the attendant called them to group, and headed out. Lingering too long, being late, sitting too close to someone: those were complications Mickey couldn’t afford. Not if he wanted to live to his next birthday with Terry out there looking to sign his death certificate.


	4. Never give them/No respect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey. You know we don’t give two shits about you. You’re small potatoes, compared to your father. And I know SouthSiders don’t snitch. But we have enough evidence to more than put you away for a long time. We have enough to put you in Max for life, quite frankly. And my bosses don’t really care which Milkovich goes down for this. But I read your file.

[ Shame, Shame - Foo Fighters ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R1G6-RUz3OA)

Mickey’s day had started badly and then gotten progressively worse. The asshole he’d been sharing a cell with, Martinez, had “graduated,” being notified and packing his shit  _ loudly,  _ starting at 5am. Instead of being able to fall back to sleep, Mickey’s thoughts were spinning. He’d start to think about Terry, about Iggy’s warning, then about the Russian. About the Russian being knocked up. 

His hands would start to shake, and cold sweat would pool at the back of his neck. Then, he’d consciously shift his thoughts, trying hard to put all that shit back in the box, focused on the here and now, waiting for the release for breakfast. But thinking about breakfast led him back to those last weeks at the house, when he’d barely come out of his room, subsisting on cigarettes and beer, hungry all the time but unwilling to face another beating. The thoughts of the beating led him back to Terry, and the whole cycle began again.

Eventually time passed, as it always seemed to, despite his best efforts, and the men shuffled out to breakfast. Mickey knew his face was puffy from tossing and turning, and he hadn’t bothered to brush or even dampen his wild cowlicks, but Gallagher didn’t make a peep when he dropped heavily at the table next to the tall redhead. 

_ Thank fuck. No useless, shitty small talk.  _ The guy was looking more and more like a good choice for muscle in here.

After a breakfast consisting of yet another heaping bowl of heavily sugared cereal, Mickey drifted back to his cell to try to lie down, in the vain hope of catching a nap before the morning’s group. His plan was disrupted when a guard rapped on the door.

Mickey sat up, extra annoyed by the disturbance because normally, he’d be able to give the guy a tongue lashing, make him realize and regret his move. Now, he was limited to a sharp look that the CO shrugged off.

“You got an appointment with your lawyer.”

_ A lawyer? That was news.  _

He quickly stood, fastening his jumpsuit’s last few buttons in his best attempt to make himself look presentable. The CO just waited, so Mickey cocked a thumb at the toilet, receiving a nod. He brushed his teeth and ran a comb through his hair until it seemed presentable, then followed the CO to a room he’d never been in before. Halfway down the hall, he remembered his white board was still on his bed, but there was no way to tell the CO that now.

Inside, a tall, chunky man sat at the table, idly flipping through pages in a manila file. Mickey sat, noticing that he hadn’t been shackled, wondering if now was the time to make a move.

“Mr. Milkovich, good to meet you,” the lawyer began. His voice was so friendly it made Mickey’s teeth hurt: the guy genuinely seemed to feel that meeting him was a pleasure.

Mickey gave a brief smile, which dropped as soon as the other man looked away. 

“I’m here to talk to you about your court case, and your options.”

_ Case? Options? _

Finally realizing Mickey couldn’t talk, the lawyer pulled out a blank sheet of paper and a short, stubby pencil.

“Here, you can use this. So your father is Terrance Milkovich, correct?”

Mickey gave a nod of assent, already guessing where this was going. The lawyer wanted Terry, not Mickey, and thought he could butter Mickey up, promise him some shit, and he’d roll on his father. Fat chance. Anyone who’d ever snitched on Terry Milkovich was buried somewhere. The bodies were never found.

Trying to forestall the pitch, Mickey scratched out a few words on the paper.

**_No snitch._ **

The lawyer looked put out at having his plan so obviously seen through, but he wasn’t finished.

“Mr. Milkovich, may I call you Mickey?”

Mickey shrugged noncommittally, but the guy took it as agreement. 

“Mickey. You know we don’t give two shits about you. You’re small potatoes, compared to your father. And I know SouthSiders don’t snitch. But we have enough evidence to more than put you away for a long time. We have enough to put you in Max for life, quite frankly. And my bosses don’t really care which Milkovich goes down for this. But I read your file.”

He stopped to peer carefully at Mickey, eyes tracing the still-fading bruises on his face.

“I can read between the lines, too. I think you want your father away for life as much as anyone else out there. Do me a favor, do yourself a favor, and help me out on this, or you won’t see your little wife again until your kid is old enough to vote.”

It had been a nice speech, Mickey mused, right up until he’d mentioned the Russian. The guy had done some research, but not enough, if he thought Mickey gave two shits about her.

As soon as Mickey’s face twisted, the lawyer saw and read him correctly. 

“Ah. The wife’s not leverage for you, is she.” It wasn’t a question. “Is the kid even yours?”

_ Well, the guy wasn’t dumb, at least. _

Mickey gave another of those shrugs, trying to show that he neither knew nor cared.

“Right. I’m guessing, right about now, you’re starting to think about life in Max, how it won’t be so bad. That’s where you’re wrong though, Mickey. It will be that bad. All your father’s buddies in there, just waiting to fuck your shit up some more, running deals for your father in there, just as under his thumb as you were out there. Your option, your only option to get away from that psychopath, is to help me.”

The lawyer was leaning forward, body tilted towards Mickey as his speech had become more impassioned. Mickey blew out a long breath, making deliberate eye contact.

He shook his head, no. Then, to get the point across, he held up the FUCK U fingers. There was a cheap thrill in watching the lawyer’s face shutter in frustration.

As the CO walked Mickey to group, he thought about what the lawyer had said. About how he’d be Terry’s bitch just as much in Max as he was on the outside. It was probably true. Just like last time, he had no options, no real solutions. 

And no access to rope, anymore.

\---

Music group was the stupid shit Mickey’d ever seen, so he decided to shake it up a little. He was really getting into his act of defiance, feeling the beat of the song in his head echo through his fists on the table, when he felt that burning gaze on his back.

Not his back, on his  _ ass _ . And he knew that it was Gallagher, somehow. Gallagher, the one guy in here who seemed to have two brain cells to rub together, was eyeing him up like a piece of fuck meat, a faggy little hole for him to stick his dick in.

Fat fuckin’ chance.

He’d had plans for that asshole. Didn’t need him, didn’t need anyone, but he’d had the beginnings of a plan, so when he looked at Mickey like a bitch, it fucked up the whole thing. That’s why he was pissed off, spitting mad and ready to throw down.

Not any of the other reasons he wanted Gallagher around besides the backup. Not the way he let Mickey be, knowing when he needed space or when he could stand to hear chatter. Not the way his stupid hair stood up a little, at the back of his neck, cause he needed a haircut, or the way his freckles disappeared when he flushed with nervousness, when he thought Mickey was mad at him.

So he gave Gallagher his most evil stare, trying to will the words into the guy’s mind.

_ Listen fuckhead, this is not over.  _


	5. Because all authority/ Have told me/You're just a lost cause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jello night!

[Waterman - UserX](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GuvPTeWQ268&app=desktop)

“Is your name actually Mickey, or is it just a nickname?”

He’d been hoping that little detail had slipped past the giant redheaded goof, but no, of course he heard and remembered. Mickey offered an indistinct wave of his hand, cause it wasn’t, but also, it kinda was.

The conversation ended with a weird introduction and handshake. The freckled fingers had lingered on his, long fingers with neatly trimmed short nails and skin that felt soft, like the hand had never carried a bat around for weeks on end, never dug with a shovel for six hours straight, didn’t clench and unclench reflexively in his sleep.

It felt a little like an apology without words. Which was exactly the kind of apology Mickey was best at, not just right now, but always. Getting the words past his throat was a challenge on his best day, and now it was impossible. But a handshake, acceptance, a conversation, fuck, _his name_ , those were all the things he could give and take to say sorry. He still needed help, and Gallagher was still his best bet. 

\---

His willingness to accept Gallagher’s apology paid off a day or so later. 

_Jello night._

Jello was the one cheap-as-fuck sweet thing he could keep in the house that his brothers, cousins, father, and uncles wouldn’t take. The little white boxes of powder didn’t look like they’d turn into deliciousness and so they were safe from drunk, high, hungry, or just bored Milkovich's. Add some boiling water, let the shit cool down, and grab a spoon. Or no spoon, if he’d protectively hidden the bowl in his unheated room in the winter.

Seeing jello with dinner was like a moment of happiness for Mickey, one he hadn’t experienced in months, maybe years. Everything had been desaturated of color, tasteless, muted. But the red jello- his eyes kept being drawn back to the brightly-colored jiggly dessert on his tray. The day hadn’t been memorable, neither especially painful nor more boring than usual, and Gallagher was with him, as usual. Gallagher was always watching him, and he’d stopped protesting, stopped the challenging glares he’d thrown at the man. Least he didn’t do anything about it, didn’t say particularly anything dumb. Just watched, like Mickey was the most fascinating person in the room. 

If he’d been able to talk, he woulda made a joke about Gallagher’s hair and the jello, but instead he methodically worked his way through his whole tray, leaving the jello for last.

Bread roll. Shitty salad. Meat loaf. Withered canned green beans. 

Finally, the only thing left in front of him was the jello. 

Jonesy slid into the empty seat beside him. 

“What’s up, Milkovich?”

Mickey stared at him. The guy had connections, family connections, and if he was seeking Mickey out now, it meant he had a message.

“Right, right, you ain’t talkin’. Perfect time to pull a scam, cause you can’t squeal or complain if someone shorts you.” Jonesy grinned, and pulled the little dish of jello out of Mickey’s hands.

_Aww, no, jello._

Mickey’s first response was inordinate sadness, which was fucked up. It was just jello. He should have been mad at Jonesy, interested in the message, anything, really. But instead, a heavy sadness suffused his body.

A blur crossed the table, as Gallagher leapt across it, slamming Jonesy to the floor.

_Well, shit._

On the linoleum, the two men, Jonesy and Gallagher, were exchanging blows and curses, as the rest of inmates began to cluster around, cheering for their favorite in the fight. Or maybe just cheering the fact that something unexpected was happening, even if they didn’t know why precisely. 

Gallagher was taking the guy down for having the temerity to steal Mickey’s jello. They hadn’t even discussed the role Mickey had wanted him in, he just slid into it automatically, like a giant red coonhound that had seen a racoon and treed it because it was in his blood.

Maybe he could count on Gallagher to have his back, if he could keep his eyes off Mickey’s ass long enough. The guy seemed good in a fight, having pinned Jonesy down, whaling on his ribs. Mickey was sure he heard at least one crack. Cracked ribs were a bitch, painful and slow to heal, he knew from experience.

As the techs pulled the two men apart, Mickey contented himself with two dishes of jello, savoring the treat and ignoring the commotion. No need to get himself thrown into solitary for no reason. He doubted there was jello in solitary.

\---

Over the next few days, as Gallagher was locked away as punishment, Mickey had time to think about the arrangement he wanted to make. He just needed another set of eyes, and Gallgher had proven himself a scrappy fighter. 

The lurid staring was an issue though. The lascivious glint in Gallagher’s eyes was unmistakable, like he _knew_ about Mickey.

Mickey had been so careful, so very careful, his whole life. Never told his hookups his name, never the same guy twice, never in good lighting if he could help it, never kissed them or fucked face to face. From all appearances he was a normal, red-blooded straight guy, fucking half the female population of the South Side. So how did Gallagher know he was a fag?

Did he smell it on him? Was Mickey doing something, unintentionally, to give himself away? Cause if that was the case, he needed to nip that shit in the bud, and fast.

As much as he protested and death-glared when Gallagher started giving him those admiring looks, a small part of Mickey didn’t _really_ want him to stop. Positive attention was positive attention, and from a hot guy… well. Maybe he could use sex to manipulate Gallagher, get him to be Mickey’s backup without having to pay him in more than ass. 

Mickey’d never done that before. Never let himself be used for sex in order to push forward his own agenda. It felt… wrong somehow. As much as he wanted to deny it, Mickey stared at Gallagher, thought about the guy, wanted to fuck him, as much as Gallagher seemed to want him. It just wasn’t possible. It wasn’t possible for Mickey, it wasn’t possible in here, it wasn’t _safe_. Rumors and gossip were the currency of any institution, and any activity he got up to here would inevitably get back to Terry.

_Fuck._

But once the thought occurred to him, of fucking Gallagher and having him as another set of eyes, it made sense. It appealed to him. And he knew that as much as he might tell himself he’d be using Gallagher, it was a lie.

  
It was impossible, and Mickey tried hard not to wish for impossible things. Especially not tall, red-headed, goofy, impossible things that looked at him like _he_ was the bowl of jello.


	6. I know how people like you end up/And if I die young

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plus, a freckled little fuck broke into my room and shoved my dick in his mouth and now I gotta deal with that shit, too.

[ My Head Hurts - Little Hurt ](https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=GgdCgXkqkJk&list=RDAMVMGgdCgXkqkJk)

  
Every day he woke up was different. Some days, Mickey would wake up before the doors unlocked and spend the time staring numbly at the ceiling. Other mornings, he’d sleep through the locks, burying his head under his pillow and trying to be unconscious for a few more minutes. And some mornings, he’d wake up pissed off at the world, for some reason or another, or no reason at all. 

Today was a pissy day. The docs had been fucking with his meds and he hadn’t been able to sleep for a few days, spent the whole night tossing and turning, mad at Gallagher, mad at the docs, mad at the world, mad at himself most of all.

Jonesy had finally given him the message, this time without any unnecessary fisticuffs or jello theft. It was from Terry, as he’d expected, but the threat was darker than he’d let himself think about.

_ Come home straight or in a body bag.  _

It was like asking him to come home a bird instead: physically impossible and also fuckin’ stupid.

God or the devil knew he’d tried, had fucked girls as much as possible, trying to find some measure of relief in it. But even emptying his balls into one of his father’s whores had left him feeling clammy and cold, not the least bit relaxed or fulfilled. Could he pretend? 

_ Shit _ . He’d been pretending for over a decade already, an’ he wasn’t getting any better at it. The older he got, the less interest he had in putting on the accoutrements of heterosexuality, the requisite leering at big tits, the tiresome trips to strip clubs with the pounding music and weak drinks while some strawberry scented bitched writhed on his lap, looking for cash. And the older he got, the less energy he could bother putting into the facade; anyone who watched him for five minutes in the club could easily see he had no interest.

It had all brought him here, all that trying to live another life, attempting to be the son his father had wanted. Well, really it had brought him to the point of death, but he’d ended up here instead. If that was his only option, he’d do it better next time. Hiding chipped away at some essential humanity inside of him, in a way he’d never been able to admit or explain. Being a fag didn’t change who he was: he was still a  shit-talking, bitch-slapping piece of South side trash even if he took it up the ass.

He never thought he’d be a flag-flying queer but his expereince was showing him only two options: live free or die. He’d be fine with either, really.

These ruminations played over and over in his head all night, and he woke up with a foul taste in his mouth and an oddly fuzzy brain, like it was stuffed full of cotton wool. He felt like a walking plushie, if it came right down to it, and that thought was so utterly  _ gay  _ he was mad at himself yet again.

At breakfast he gave Gallagher a scowl, huddling over his cereal as the other man wisely kept his yap shut. 

Later, in the day room, they sat on a plastic couch and looked on as the other inmates watched another shitty tv show. A new guard had started recently, and Mickey was feeling a little reckless, a little loose, like he was already a dead man, so who cared if he looked a little too close at the new screw?

No one was watching, and it couldn’t hurt to look. It felt like a little extra screw you to Jonesy, to Terry, to himself even. 

The meds still had him off-center, sounds all felt distant and his reactions were a little slowed, so when Gallagher leaned over and hissed at him, it took a full moment for the meaning to penetrate Mickey’s mind. 

“This ain’t Macy’s, bitch, stop window shopping.”

_ Had the asshole really said that shit to him? Fuck, how did he let himself get caught checking a dude out, was he really that sloppy? _

Fire crept up the back of his neck, shame-filled and hot. 

Mickey stared down, flicking his eyes to Gallagher’s lap and then back to the floor.  _ Was he going to tell anyone? _

How could Mickey defend himself when he couldn’t fuckin’ talk? He’d have to fight, a lot, and he was still healing from-  _ fuck _ .

The shame and fear slowly morphed into anger as he sat, seething, vast tides of acid burning his belly. 

_ Can’t I just murder him? I’m already fucked for life, and that way he can’t tell anyone.  _

He discarded that plan, it’s not like Gallagher was  _ wrong _ , just a little too fuckin’ observant for Mickey’s safety. The anger was still building though, and rather than take it out with his fists on the closest target, Mickey stood and launched himself in the direction of his cell, not looking back, head woozy from the new medication and the rapid near-hyperventilation of his breathing as he stalked out of the day room.

\---

In his cell, he lay, face down, on his bed. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was his, and with his face down, he could block out a tiny percentage of the world’s ever-present input. Sights, sounds, smells, feelings. It was all too much right now, and all he wanted was to pull the plug on his brain and stop living this life he was trapped in.

Back and forth, he rubbed his face on the rough weft of the cheap pillow-covering, focused on the feeling and texture. He was probably giving himself rugburn on his face, but who fuckin’ cared; it at least captured his brain and let him breath, a little.

Footsteps approached, and then entered his cell. 

_ Fuck _ . Mickey was positive he knew who had followed him. No one else would dare enter his lair. Stupid fuckin’ Gallagher and his complete lack of self-preservation. If he’d just given Mickey space, time to think shit through, but coming here now- it was like a provocation.

Mickey had questions of his own now. 

_ What did Gallagher want, and how much was this gonna hurt? _

He felt a light touch on his back, not a hand, thank fuck, but some item or another with a hard corner. Mickey sat up, giving Gallagher his best get-fucked glare.

“I wanna know why you’re here.”

Jesus fuckin’ christ, Gallagher wanted to fuckin’ talk?

Mickey sighed, and gave a wave, hoping to express the truth, that he was a dumb piece of shit who should be dead, just like the rest of the inmates in this place. He was here because he’d fucked up, badly.

Gallagher seemed to understand, maybe, but of course he had a fuckin’ follow up question. “What really happened to you? Is it true, what the techs say, that you tried to- tried to hurt yourself, because you’re gay?”

It’s not like Mickey could answer. Nor was he willing to write the truth on the little while board Gallagher had poked him in the back with. What would he say, ‘ _ M’ here cause I tried to hurt myself cause I’m gay? _ ’ Gallagher would take that shit as an open invitation to fuck with Mickey, most likely. That’s what Mickey would do if he found out a secret weakness in someone around him in here. Plus, if that was the gossip then Terry’s message wasn’t just a message, it was an oath, an outright threat.

All he wanted to do was beat someone else until he felt something. The fear of Terry, the shame at being seen, the pain of being himself: it all crystalized into the urge to hurt someone, swing his fists until they were bloody and his brain stopped screaming at him, drowned out by sounds of pain coming out of another human being. He knew it didn’t make sense, that it wasn’t right, but those felt like distant concerns. There was only the singular motivation at hand, and Gallagher was the closest target.

He reached out, pretending to take the board, as if he was going to write a dissertation explaining his fondness for dick and how it would lead to his early and inevitable death, but swung at the last moment, smacking Gallagher across the face with the board, and it was on.

The two men fought and tousled, the upper hand going back and forth. Gallagher was strong, but Mickey was craftier, had to be. The whole time Mickey felt - empty. Like all his feelings had drained out onto the floor and he was left clean and new. 

Finally, he had Gallagher pinned under him on the bed and he just… stopped. The guy had his eyes squeezed shut like a little kid, waiting for the blow to fall. Mickey could feel his own heart racing, thrumming through his body. He felt less dead than he had in months, like his body was waking up after a long winter. And his dick- well, his dick was wide awake.

Was Gallagher on board, he wondered? Did he know? Had he put the pieces together, Mickey staring at the guard, Mickey beating on him, the gossip that was all too true? Without much conscious thought, Mickey had decided to do something, more to prove he was actually still alive. Gallagher was here, and that was all Mickey’s mind needed to formulate a plan. 

Did Gallagher know this could only happen once? That it won’t mean anything? There was no time to “discuss” the situation; all Mickey knew were hormones and pheromones and pumping blood throughout his body, his dick hot inside his suit. 

Those stupid green eyes had opened and followed Mickey’s gaze, the evidence of his interest throbbing obviously under Gallagher’s stare. They both paused, panting and a little short of breath.

Now Mickey just had to figure out how. How could this happen without his appearing weak? While his mind ran through possibilities, both men quickly stripped, knowing their time unobserved would be short. 

Gallagher had a nice cock, big. Mickey licked his lips, considering, when suddenly, astonishingly, Gallagher went to his knees, and all plans flew out of Mickey’s mind. He was captivated by the idea of Gallagher blowing him, of feeding his cock past that firm cupid’s bow until his balls rested on Gallagher’s crooked chin. He swallowed, mouth dry. 

“You can put your hands in my hair.” Mickey obliged, trying to keep his touch light as he ran it through the red hair that was just beginning to curl.

Gallagher took him in hand, slowly swallowing him down, and Mickey realized maybe he hadn’t died for a reason, because this,  _ this  _ was surely going to be the thing that killed him. 

As Gallagher sucked his soul out through his dick, Mickey’s thoughts were a mess - all the sounds he couldn’t quite get out, the dirty words he wanted to spill, the voice of his shame loud as well.

_ Ain’t gonna turn this shit down. It’s not really gay if someone else has your dick in their mouth. A mouth’s a mouth. Fuck, this was so hot, Gallagher was so hot. _

But the whole time he was staring down at the freckled cheeks, at the masculine planes of his face, the angle of his strong jaw, the wisps of chest hair visible. A mouth might be a mouth, but it was hot that this was a man’s mouth. That it was  _ this  _ man’s mouth. 

Mickey quashed that train of thought, focused on the wet heat surrounding him, the quick pace of the sucking and the little licks Gallagher threw in that quickly had him on the edge. 

He came. Of course he came, like a fuckin’ fire hydrant, in Gallagher’s mouth and even across his lips, making his dick twitch again and release another little pulse of come. Mickey could see Ian’s shaft hard and pulsing as the man pulled it roughly. He knew what to do, moving until he could get a hand on it, watching avidly, more than a little in awe of how heavy and warm it was in his hand, jerking Gallagher off quickly and efficiently. 

They both ended up sitting on the floor, backs against the bed, side by side, breathing, not looking at each other. He passed Gallagher a shirt to wipe himself off with. Gallagher cleaned up, then tried to hand that shit back, and Mickey scowled. 

_ Put that on the floor, dumbass. _

Gallagher grinned, “Thanks.”

Was he thanking Mickey for the tee-shirt, or the handjob, or …? It was too much for Mickey to process. He couldn’t think to say anything, even if he would have been able, so he peeked at Gallagher who was watching him quietly.

Finally, wanting to give some sign of gratitude, Mickey settled on a thumbs up. 

_ Thanks. That was… that was good. _

It seemed to get the message across, and Gallagher relaxed slightly, though he was still staring at Mickey’s face.

\---

After another long night of staring at the ceiling, Mickey came to breakfast determined to pretend the day before hadn’t happened. It had been a fluke, a mistake. 

But the goofy grin on Gallagher’s face was hard to squash, especially without writing anything incriminating on the white board or hitting him. So he settled for a seemingly innocuous question, 

**_What are you so happy about?_ **

“I had some good dreams last night, is all.” The wink Gallagher dropped told Mickey all he needed to know about the content of said dreams and his own starring role in them. “Why aren’t you in a good mood?”

Mickey puffed out a put-upon sign, then wrote his response.

**_Yesterday. Bad night, bad sleep._ **

_ Plus, a freckled little fuck broke into my room and shoved my dick in his mouth and now I gotta deal with that shit, too. _


	7. I was born with a target on my/Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He shoved Gallagher away, afterglow fully destroyed.

[ Spirit - Judah and the Lion ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=--JlnrXrOVE)

The next meal time, Ian still looked like he was lit by a spotlight, a stupid-ass grin on his face as soon as Mickey walked into the cafeteria, making room on the basically empty table for Mickey’s tray and white board. 

Objectively, Mickey knew these gestures were meant kindly, but all he felt was fear, like an electric shock. He brought his face down into a mean scowl, turning on his heel for an unoccupied table. But he hadn’t turned fast enough to miss the look of sadness on Gallagher’s face. That shouldn’t have felt like anything to Mickey, cause they weren’t anything to each other. He didn’t want them to be, it hadn’t meant anything, it was just a fuckin’ suck job, for christsakes.

He knew he was sending mixed signals, and he felt bad, so he heaved his tray up and went to sit with Gallagher. His back and forth bullshit was probably as bad as an outright rejection, but Mickey couldn’t bring himself to commit either way. He wanted more of Gallagher, and he also desperately wanted not to want him, _not_ to want more.

The day had been spent in groups and counseling sessions, but Mickey’s mind had been elsewhere, thinking about that long, thick dick he’d gotten his hands on. How it would feel, rearranging his guts. The faces Gallagher would make, the sounds. 

What Terry would do to them both if he found out.

Mickey was caught in a trap, caged by the meds that made his thinking slow and honey-thick when they worked, making his feelings shallow and far away. On other days, he didn’t feel like he had any medications or changes going on, and he was back in the pit, surrounded by darkness, shame, and fear. When he felt like that, he’d start looking around for a shiv, a blade, another rope. 

Just to see. To know it would be there, when he needed it. 

Today was one of those days where he felt like the world was very far away, like he’d been emptied out of all thoughts and feelings, left with only vague curiosity, a distant wonder about all the things he’d once hoped to do in his life. Things he now knew he’d never have the chance to do.

Like sky-diving. Jumping out of a perfectly good airplane had always sounded interesting, combining his fear of heights and control issues. It was one of the few things that he felt fear of in his current muffled state, so he thought about it a lot, just to feel something. He’d thought about holding up a bank, not because the hold-up was interesting at all, but because for a day or two he’d get to enjoy all that cash. Just for one night, to spend it in a fancy-ass hotel, order steak from room service, take a bath in a hot tub with those jet things. Take the world’s biggest shit and then flush it away, leaving no traces.

Mickey thought about finding Mandy. About being able to find the right words to tell her he was sorry, sorry he hadn’t seen what was happening to her sooner. Maybe hugging her.

Putting up a gravestone for his mother. No body to bury, but some evidence that she’d existed. She deserved that much.

Murdering Terry, obviously. He’d thought of a thousand scenarios where he killed his father, both directly and through secondary sources. Intricate plans and simple ones. The how didn’t matter, only the outcome. If Terry killed him too in the process, that didn’t matter at all. With Terry gone, the world would be a better place. 

With Mickey gone, it might too.

\---

Eventually, he got Gallagher to fuck him. The first time had been a comedic debacle. He’d tried to hint, during another of their meal times. Licking his spoon suggestively. Bending over when he’d dropped his white board, putting a little extra umph in the arch of his back, aiming his ass right at Gallagher. He knew the guy saw it, but maybe he was retarded or some shit, cause he didn’t _do_ anything about it, just gaped.

Mickey wasn’t about to spell it out on the white board for anyone else to see. He tried a series of complicated eyebrow waggles and nose scrunches, and finally resorted to the old hand signal, one hand making the ok sign, the other hand pushing a finger in and out, until understanding dawned on Gallagher’s face. 

It was a good thing he figured it out, too, cause Mickey was about to give up and go jerk off by himself. Maybe part of the reason Gallagher was so slow to catch on was Mickey’s hot and cold behavior, one day crowding Gallagher into his own cell, before dropping to his knees to give him an epic blowjob of his own; another day refusing Gallagher’s clear overtures with a frown and a shove. 

Mickey could see himself doing that shit, and hated it, hated that he couldn’t just _tell_ Gallagher what was going on in his head, how every time they were together he had flashes of Adam’s face, blood running down from the cut on his scalp.

But eventually he did get Gallagher’s attention, communicated the message, and they found a disused storage closet, complete with spare blankets, smelling like moths and dust. Mickey’d planned ahead, coming with a few pats of melting margarine in his pocket, so when Gallagher shut the door and they stood in the dark, Mickey just shoved him into his big paw and turned around, dropping his jumpsuit and waiting. The dark was good, cause Gallagher couldn’t see his face, but it was bad because it gave his nightmares a huge palette to be displayed on.

The fingers stroking down his spine, were those Ian or were those Adam? The rough breathing, was that Terry, ready to pistol whip him blind?

It wasn’t until Gallagher’s cock head was just kissing moistly against his hole that Mickey knew for sure where he was, who he was with, that he’d actually wanted this.

Well, after that, things were a little fuzzy. Good fuzzy, for once, the world blurry around the edges as Mickey came untouched for the first time in his life, just clutching a shelf as Gallagher unerringly pounded his prostate, the changing of Mickey’s ass sending him over the edge. Mickey’d never fucked without a condom before, never fucked with such minimal lube, and the burn had been exquisite, the feeling of cum dripping out of his ass, not so much. Luckily, Gallagher couldn’t see his expression, because it was foul, instead tracing his fingertips lightly over Mickey’s face. 

Mickey’s _damp_ face.

“Mickey? Mick? Are you crying?”

_Fuck_. He shoved Gallagher away, afterglow fully destroyed. Angrily, he pulled up his jumpsuit and crashed open the door, not even caring if he left Gallagher’s ass hanging in the wind for the world to see.

\---

They fucked regularly after that, when they could find a spot and the time. Luckily, Gallagher never seemed to take his moods to heart. Like a fuckin’ puppy dog, hanging around. If his dick wasn’t so good, Mickey woulda shanked him a week ago when he brushed their knuckles together in _public_. That was, like, half a step from holding hands and getting fag-married in Vegas.

He also asked stupid-ass questions. “So, was this a booty-call?”

Mickey wanted to gouge his own eyes out, having to witness the little smile that played on Gallagher’s lips. Most problematically, he felt his own face wanting to smile back, to fucking _agree_. Instead, he kept a leash on himself, shrugging and walking off.

\---

Then Gallagher tried to kiss him, and, well, maybe Mickey overreacted a little. The bites to his neck and jaw were fine, they were awesome, really. The hint of pain and hot breath on his skin was doin things to him, but then he felt the move coming, and reacted blindly, throwing Gallagher halfway across the cell.

_What was he so afraid of? Seriously?_

Gallagher was so fuckin’ naive it was a miracle he’d survived this long without Mickey. He’d probably walk into big boy jail and hit on the first swingin’ dick he saw, even if it was attached to a literal nazi. Or think CO’s were there to assist, go to one when he needed help, instead of askin’ a connected boy so he didn’t get labeled a snitch.

Gallagher didn’t, couldn’t, understand; that much was apparent. But Mickey knew all the reasons, all the ways what they were doing could end up with his death. And makin’ it more than it was, more than just fuckin’ around, more than prison gay, just added more danger. Just one person in here had to find out and get the brilliant idea to reach out to Terry and Mickey would be done for, a dead man still walking around unaware. 

The stress of it had already been eating at him, but the fucking was good, and so he’d kept coming back for more, despite knowing how risky it was. 

In the end, it wasn’t Gallagher he was mad at, it was himself. For being weak. For being queer. For not being strong enough to die when he had the chance. The feelings were flooding him, and all he could think to do was lash out. His only conscious thought was

_don’t hurt Gallagher_

But the dumb bitch couldn’t let him do it, grabbed him up like he was just a kid, letting Mickey kick and struggle until he was winded and sagged, defeated.

They sat on the bed, but Mickey’s thoughts didn’t get any clearer. They kept spiraling darkly, the worst thoughts.

_waste of breath_

_fucking faggot_

_better off dead_

And his breath started coming in pants, then gasps. It felt like the rope was on his throat again, choking him, and the gauze was suddenly too much. He ripped the shit off, feeling Gallagher’s gaze on his neck, not like a weight or a new wound, but like a balm, mild and painless. Like a mother, trailing a feather over a baby’s arm.

“You hung yourself,” Gallagher said. There was no accusation there, no shock. He’d already guessed as much.

“Cause you’re gay?” The answer seemed obvious to Mickey, but Gallagher really was- no, not dumb. He’d grown up differently, in a world a million miles from Mickey’s.

“Ok, I still don’t get it.”

_Jesus christ, what was it gonna take to get the giant redheaded moron to understand?_

Mickey grabbed the whiteboard, writing quickly, not making an effort at legibility. He included the russian, and the baby, but that was as far as he got.

He’d left out the worst parts, the parts that he couldn’t tell anyone in print, couldn’t face seeing the words in stark black and white. Maybe someday, in the dark, in a whisper. Not like this. 

Had he loved Adam at all? Not really. 

Adam had a nice cock, didn’t care if Mickey was dirty, and would show up anytime Mickey gave him the all clear. That wasn’t love. That was barely even liking, but it was more than Mickey had ever had before, so he had tried to hold it, shelter it like a lighter flame in a breeze, until he couldn’t, until they were both burnt, beaten, broken.

Now Gallagher knew, and Mickey didn’t feel any lighter. It felt like yet another brick piled on his chest, like his ability to breath was even more restricted. 

He waited for a response, for any clue that would tell him what Gallagher was thinking. Maybe this was how Ian felt about Mickey, all the time. Waiting. Watching. 

Sitting on the bed, it was Gallagher’s turn to whisper. “Wish I’d been there. I coulda tried to help you, maybe.”

That was literally more than any person had ever offered to do for Mickey, and hearing it from this tall, soft man nearby broke him, imagining what Terry would have made him do had Gallagher been there. Imagining how it would have felt, hurting him, damaging the oddly imperfect face that his fingers itched to draw, to touch. 

It was late afternoon, but Mickey closed his eyes, pretending it was the darkest night, and reached out. He let one thumb trace Gallagher’s mouth, feeling the softness and give there. It was another of those uncharacteristic moves that he’d never felt the urge to do before, that felt right in the moment. Here. With this man. Mickey opened his eyes, and saw Gallagher tearing up, let the big paw cover his own. They laid on the bed, Mickey petting at his face in the only form of comfort he could offer. He had so little to give, so few resources, both externally and internally, but anything he had, he’d give this man.

Lying in bed together, offering and accepting what comfort he could, Mickey came to a decision about the Russian. Even if he couldn’t tell anyone yet. 

The answer was he can’t go back to that life. Marriage to a dead-eye whore was no life at all. He’d rather stay in the system for the rest of his life. That was the better option, the safer one, in so many ways. Even if the meds were terrible, he got them here. Even if the food was shitty, there was enough here. Every day, three times, there was food. Heat. A bed. Clean laundry. A doctor, if he was sick enough. So much better than the life he had out there. 

As he lay on the narrow bed, he studiously avoided the thought that Gallagher was in here, that he was so much a part of what made it decent, survivable.

For the first time he could remember, Mickey thought about next week, next month, fuck, even next year. Years and years in here, safe and warm. Fed. Soft. Not alone.


	8. With a target on my head/Wrong time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So many choices, all of them bad.

[ Little Dark Age - MGMT ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rtL5oMyBHPs)

Not alone for now, that was. Mickey knew their situation, this place, was only temporary. He didn’t have any illusions about its permanence, but he also didn’t have the wherewithal to think too concretely about the future. It had been so long since he’d been able to imagine a future that even now, with the drugs flowing through his veins and keeping the depression at bay, the future still seemed like an impossible dream, some far off land he could never hope to visit.

Gallagher kept alluding to his moving on. Dropping little offhanded remarks about how they could write to each other. Mickey would have laughed out loud, if he’d been able to make that noise come out right. Sure, like Mickey was gonna sit in his little cell and write a whole letter.

_ Dear Gallagher, today I jerked off, and thought about you. There was jello at dinner, and I thought about you. My father threatened my life again, and I thought of you. _

No fuckin’ way could he let Gallagher know how far he’d wormed his ginger self into Mickey’s mind. So he just brushed off the comments, the suggestions, playing dumb and avoiding the conversation. 

It’s not like they were fuckin’ boyfriends. This was just convenient, he told himself. Coulda been anyone, any guy in here if Mickey was that hard up, (he lied to himself, unable or unwilling to admit the truth).

“But I wanna be with you, Mickey!”

_ You don’t get to be _ , he answered in his mind.  _ You don’t belong in here, don’t belong with me. You belong out in the world, doin shit and makin’ friends. With a family who loves you. Go live happily ever after, for both of us. _

Gallagher would get frustrated with Mickey’s obstinacy, but could usually be brought out of it with a look, or a subtle gesture. Almost a caress, a touch that meant more than just fucking, or would have, if they were somewhere else. A brush of fingertips across his forearm. A nudge of his shoulder with Mickey’s own, leaning in a little too long, too hard. Kicking his ankle under the table. That was all Mickey could offer by way of reassurances. 

Because Mickey didn’t deal in ‘ifs.’ He didn’t look at ‘maybes’ or ‘somedays.’ He had today, here and now, and that was it. The future was an undiscovered country he would never get a passport to enter. They were here now, so why waste their time worrying about a future that would come, sooner or later, whether they wanted it to or not?

\---

“Put that fuckin’ thing away, you look like a goddamm queer.”

_ Yup, that was Terry. _ Mickey sat at the small table, and shoved his whiteboard behind him, where it bit into his skin as he sat back on the plastic. He’d been shocked as hell when he heard he had any visitor at all, and seeing his father in the room was like seeing a ghost. Terry never visited anyone in prison- he was always the one demanding to be visited, to be brought items, to have his commissary account filled, to be kept up to date on the goings on of his criminal empire during his numerous incarcerations. 

Terry seemed to be waiting for Mickey to say something, had that stupid bug-eyed expression on his face like Mickey had something to apologize for. Well, fuck that noise. Mickey crossed his arms and sat in stoney silence. 

Terry bent forward across the table, hissing. “You’re just gonna sit there?”

Internally, Mickey debated. He had a range of potential responses, and he ranked them, based on how likely they were to produce a violent response. He wasn’t opposed to Terry gettin’ arrested today, but he also had half an eye on Gallagher on the other side of the room. If Terry laid into him, Gallagher would join the fight, and Terry would know he existed. It was much, much safer if Terry never even saw his long shadow on the linoleum. 

Ultimately, he decided on a quick, rough gesture at his throat.

“Oh, right. Iggy said you ain’t talkin’. Good plan, good plan.” Terry nodded sagely, as if it was something they had agreed on. 

_ No fuckin’ chance. _

“I know you got my message, but in case you forgot it, the offer’s changed.”

The offer of ‘ _ come home straight or in a body bag _ ’? Cause yeah, Mickey didn’t fuckin’ forget that shit.

He inclined his head, waiting. 

“You needta marry her, legal-like. Church and shit. Come home, get married, an’ we can both forget about your faggy bullshit. She stays in the country, my grandkid stays, and your brains stay inside your skull.”

_ Or? _

Mickey made a waving,  _ come on, what’s the rest _ , movement with his FUCK hand.

“You want me to say it?” Terry eyed him scornfully. “Fine. I ain’t gonna wait for you to off yourself. I’ll send some boys, give you all the cock you want, till you’re split from stem to stern, then let you bleed out.

That sonofabitch was never gonna let him be happy, Mickey realized. His hands were shaking as he reached back to get his whiteboard, trying to buy time, plan what he was gonna say, but Terry growled, low in his throat.

“This ain’t a game. You do what I say, or you stay here and die, slow and painful. Then, I go after your shirt-lifter boyfriend.”

For a moment, Mickey cut his eyes to Ian in confusion, wondering how Terry could know, how they’d been found out, before he realized his mistake. Terry was threatening  _ Adam _ . Adam, who’d been the wrong man, in the wrong place, at the wrong time. 

But Adam was a fuckin’ adult, and Mickey needed to take care of himself first. (A little tidbit he’d picked up in a therapy group).

Terry was still ranting, voice picking up in tempo and aggression. “You’re not doing that faggot shit in my house, musta been your fuckin’ mother sleepin’ around, a queer’s no son of mine!”

Mickey uncapped the dry erase marker and began a long, expletive-laden response, fingers cold and clammy as they tightened. He was about halfway through the third word ( _ way _ ) as Teerry stood, heavy boot knocking his chair out of the way. Mickey kept writing furiously.

**_no fuckin way im comin home to marry that whore u probably knocked her up id rather_ **

Terry didn’t wait for him to finish the thought, snatching the board out of Mickey’s hands, and throwing it to the floor. As Mickey watched, Terry brought a dirty boot down, stomping the board, smashing it into pieces that sprayed across the floor.

_ Motherfucker! I was using that. _

Mickey stood up, hands gripping the edge of the table both to hold himself up and contain his own rage.

Terry stepped in closer, and Mickey knew he was in real danger. The COs here didn’t carry real weapons, and Terry had 40 pounds on the the bigger of the two guards. If Terry wanted to curb-stomp him to death here, in front of Gallagher, no one would be able to stop him. 

A blaring alarm went off, and Mickey looked over, aware his features were glazed, at the guard who’d pulled the alarm. 

“Visitation is  cancelled! Milkovich, sit your ass down! Visitors you have 20 seconds to be out that door or we’re keepin’ you.”

Terry gave another menacing growl in Mickey’s direction, letting loose a final threat. “Stem to stern, bitch. Stem to stern,” then put his hands up and walked out, passing by the guards as if they weren’t even there.

_ Fuck _ .

**_Fuck_ ** . 

This was so bad. He knew better than to go toe-to-toe with Terry. You couldn’t come at him head on, you had to sneak around him to get by. Now his life was-  _ fuck _ , he was gonna die. Be raped to death by his father’s flunkies. Just when he’d finally stopped wanting to die, he was closer than ever to having his life ended in one of the worst ways he could imagine. 

As the COs escorted him back to his cell, Mickey didn’t even take in his surroundings. He was numb, all he could think of were Terry’s final words.

_ Stem to stern. _

\---

In his cell, Mickey found the blade and stared at the reflection where the fluorescent lights bounced off the metal. He held it in his hand, thinking. 

_ It’d be quick. I can do it quick and then it’s all over.  _

He thought about Mandy, wherever she was. Hoped she was safe.

The blade glinted wickedly as he turned it over in his fingers.

He thought about Adam, Adam who Mickey hadn’t even tried to keep safe, or had tried, but not done enough. Now he was out there with a target on his back anytime he stepped foot in the South Side. 

Mickey tested the blade, running it over his clothed thigh, hearing the slick slide, feeling the pressure on his skin.

He thought about Iggy, and Svet, and a baby. He thought about Colin, and Jamie, Joey and Tony. He thought about his mother; maybe she had cheated on Terry, maybe not. So fuckin’ young. 

Mickey put the blade on the bed beside him, and began to unsnap the top of his jumpsuit, loosening the collar and laying the flaps open wide. He rolled up his sleeves, looking at the thin tracks of blue and red, swimming under his skin. 

_ So many choices, all of them bad. _

Because he didn’t actually want to die. He didn’t want to live this life, his life, anymore, but he also didn’t want to die. Maybe it was the drugs, maybe it was the shitty therapy, but the omnipresent weight of wishing he could sleep and never wake up had lifted. And now he didn’t see any other way out.

He thought about Gallagher, then pushed the image away. Didn’t need to be entangling anyone else in his bullshit, let alone someone that soft. Someone who touched his face, said shit to him like, ‘ _ You’re so smart, Mick. _ ’ 

_ Dumb as shit, was what he was.  _ Mickey laid on his side, curled up in the fetal position, tucking his knees as close to his chest as he could. The razor blade was gripped in one hand, sharp edge facing out. 

\---

Gallagher found him, hours later, still curled up in a fetal position. Somehow, he brought Mickey back into his body, demanding, pushing, using Mickey for his pleasure until Mickey found himself fully present again. 

His hole was wet and cool, where Gallagher was alternatively licking at him and blowing air across his flesh, and his first thought in hours was ‘ _ That can’t be fuckin’ hygenic.’ _

But it felt fantastic, and the blade had gotten lost somewhere along the way, and so he went with it, gratefully, as Ian slid deep inside him.

Maybe that was how he’d done it, how Gallagher’d gotten under his skin. Maybe there was just a spot, that deep in his ass, that only Gallagher could touch, buried a little piece of himself there that Mickey never needed to give back.

Gallagher was fucking into him slowly but forcefully, Mickey’s body active but mind only loosely tethered. His orgasm surprised him, jolting him fully into the present as he felt Gallagher let go too, heat flooding into him.

It bothered Mickey, sometimes, that he didn’t have anything to give back to Gallagher. Obviously mind-blowing sex was something, but it wasn’t the same as the emotional support and sheer distraction from the mind-numbing boredom of this place Ian provided. Unconditional acceptance. It was all totally new to Mickey, different than his previous furtive encounters. It was sex, and friendship, and maybe more, because they had each other’s backs. It didn’t make sense, but he felt like he owed Gallagher something, wanted to give him a gift, somehow. Fuckin’ unfamiliar feeling, wanting to be selfless.

As Gallagher lay there behind him, still panting after the effort, Mickey stopped thinking. He turned his head, saw the sweat on his brow, the freckles across the bridge of Gallagher’s nose. He closed his eyes, and pressed their lips together, just once, quickly, then pulled back to watch for a reaction.

Gallagher blinked those green, green eyes. A smile began, first between his brows, trickling down his face until his lips stretched out widely. Mickey held his breath, waiting. 

Ian leaned in, and Mickey tensed, thinking,  _ I can’t, it’s too good, we can’t, we have to- _

And then Gallagher was kissing him, and Mickey sighed, going boneless, too tired to fight himself any more today. 

There was always tomorrow. He could be mad again tomorrow, sad tomorrow. Today, here? This was everything: breathing Gallagher in, filling up his lungs with that unique smell. Another part of him only Gallagher had touched. 

His choice was clear.


	9. Reflecting a black heart/Trigger finger rest on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That was a lie. He knew exactly where he was going. 

[ My Ordinary Life - The Living Tombstone  ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Zj0JOHJR-s)

He was dreaming of an island, all alone except for him and... someone else. They sat under a palm tree, on some of those fancy folding chairs you saw in commercials. The waves crashed, and the sun set slowly. A freckled hand reached out, landed on his fingers, squeezing-

“Get up, Milkovich.”

The voice sounded just like Terry, so Mickey thought at first it was just one of his usual nightmares.

“Come on, get up. Van won’t wait, neither will the judge.”

No, this was real. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and sat up, looking around. It was early, really fucking early. The first hint of sunlight hadn’t reached the window in his cell yet, so everything looked dark out there still.

The CO impatiently handed him a little white cup with some pills. He swallowed them dry, and tossed the cup on the floor defiantly, before giving a quizzical gesture.

_ What’s the rush, asshole? _

“You got a meeting with your lawyer, then court today. You’re cured. Pack your stuff, you ain’t comin’ back here.”

_ Well, shit. _

Slowly, as if moving through thick sludge, Mickey tossed his few personal effects into the mesh bag the CO offered. His mind was still coming to life, thoughts floating up from some nightmarishly dark depth. He was leaving, all fixed. Lawyer, court. Going to prison. This was it. No time to do anything extra. 

The annoying part was that he  _ was  _ better. But it wasn’t because of the groups, the talk therapy, or even the medication. It was because of Gallagher. He turned his mind away from thinking about the weeks and months in prison to come. Just thinking about the checklist made him feel deeply weary. 

A cleaning tech leaned on the doorway, waiting for Mickey to finish and leave so she could start removing every evidence that he’d ever been there. As he carefully pulled down his little art pieces from the walls, Mickey’s thoughts finally seemed to come up to speed. He needed to send a message to Gallagher, some kind of thanks, whether it was for having his back, for helping him survive here, or for something he couldn’t put a name to.

An idea came to him, and he gestured to the crapper. The CO gave an aggrieved nod. “Make it snappy.” Mickey ducked into the stall, carrying his small pad of paper and pencil. Sitting on the toilet, emptying his bowels, he sketched quickly, rough lines taking shape under his fingers. There weren’t any words he could use, nothing safe, nothing big enough to convey everything he felt but this- his dream. He could give Gallagher that.

Finishing up, flushing, and ripping the page off, he ran a comb through his hair and came back to the cell proper. His bed had already been stripped, and the cleaning woman was dully shoving the dirty linens into a laundry bag. Mickey barely managed to grab his white board before it too ended up in the unit’s laundry system, lost to him forever. He scratched out a quick question on the board, showing it to the cleaner.

**_can you put this in cell S91 pls?_ **

She glanced up at him after reading it, eyes finally awake. “Why should I?

He restrained his instinctive response to flip her off. He didn’t have anything, no leverage, no bribery, nothing to offer. So he tried something new.

Mickey let his face go soft, and brought his hands together in a gesture of supplication. He opened his eyes wide and tried to convey his need, his lack of resources, his desperation. Something must have worked, because she shrugged and held out her hand. 

“Give it here. No promises, though.”

He knew that was as good as he was going to get, so he carefully started to hand over the ripped sheet of paper, before a thought occurred to him. He pulled the sheet back and turned it, laying it on his whiteboard so he could sign it, putting his initials with a little extra flair, then passed the drawing to the cleaner, who stood rolling her eyes at his efforts. No matter, she folded it carelessly and tucked it into a pocket. He mouthed a careful  _ thank you  _ at her, and finished packing his shit.

The sun was just rising as the van pulled away, leaving the place behind. Mickey didn’t look back; he just had to keep it together long enough to execute the plan.

\---

At the courthouse, he was escorted in shackles into a closet-sized room, crammed full with a table and a few crummy folding chairs. He sat, head down on the tabletop, thinking about resting but unable to contain the anxiety that coursed through him. 

Finally, the door opened and the too-clean, too-shiny lawyer entered.

“Well, Mr. Milkovich. I can’t say I expected to hear from you again.” The man leaned artfully against the door, not even deigning to enter the room or sit.

Mickey rolled his eyes and waved at the rusty folding chair. 

_ Sit down, asshole. If we’re gonna do this, you need to sit. _

Pausing, Mickey took a deep breath. He pushed the air up from his belly, closed his voice box and made the first deliberate noises he’d been able to produce in months.

“Deal.” His voice was scratchy and thick, hard to understand, maybe, but the lawyer figured it out, sat and closed the door. 

\---

“Mr. Milkovich, I understand you’ve agreed to turn state’s evidence and testify in another ongoing case. As a result, and in light of your recent mental health struggles, I am sentencing you to the minimum, six years, to be served at the prison of your choice.”

Mickey glanced at the fancy-ass lawyer, who nodded at him. Mickey nodded at the judge. 

There was more legal-speak and nonsense, but Mickey let that all flow past him like trash in the rainwater streaming at the edge of the street. He was committed now; he’d already given them enough of the broad strokes they needed to take down Terry. A few more affidavit sessions and he’d have given them enough to put Terry away for life, in Max. In other words, fuckin’ far away from wherever Mickey would end up.

That was a lie. He knew  _ exactly  _ where he was going. 

\---

Mickey’d only made the deal to get a reduced sentence, plus the joy of Terry being put away for good. When they’d asked what he wanted though, he’d hedged. 

**_What can you offer?_ **

He knew it wouldn’t be anything tangible like cash, but that was fine. This was just a fishing expedition, to see what his options were. Immunity would’ve been nice, or time served, but the lawyer told him upfront those were off the table. Reduced sentencing recommendations and choice of joint, those were the two options that stood out like giant neon flashing lights as he listened, but Mickey had kept his face impassive, playing his cards close to his chest. 

Now, he was set. The plan he’d made had been selling himself short, but he wasn’t tryin’ to count his chickens yet. Or his cocks. It might take a few weeks, or even a month, but he was so close to something really fucking good. He just had to get established, start workin’ out again, get big, find a connection, beat a guy down so folks knew not to fuck with him, maybe start his own scam. There was a lot to think about.

There were risks too. As soon as Terry got picked up, he’d know it was Mickey who’d squealed on him, then Mickey would need to sleep with one eye open, make sure no one thought to curry favor with the elder Milkovich by taking out the younger. The dangers seemed very far away, though. All he could think about was a cell, a real regular, shitty cell with the squat toilet in the corner and the bunk-beds with thin plastic mattresses. And maybe, if it all worked out, more.

He turned his thoughts away from that, focused on his little list of tasks to complete. Make shit real nice, so-

He shook his head. No.

Take his meds, work out, keep his nose clean, and wait.

Practice talkin’, too. 

That’d be a nice surprise, a good gift. Something he could offer that couldn’t be ripped up, taken away, or smashed. 

\---

That night, lying in his little bed in the big, open room where all the new prisoners were held, Mickey listened to the men, all breathing, in the dim light. There was snoring, snuffling, farting. At least one guy was not-so-surreptitiously jerking off, based on the rustling of blankets and panting. 

Someone was crying. 

Mickey flipped onto his back, staring at the bunk above him, sagging down in the middle. He thought about the plan, about having Gallagher with him. About falling asleep in the same bed, maybe. How it might feel to have those long arms around him. 

_ Would it be stifling, claustrophobic? Or warm, comforting? _

He thought about the last thing he’d heard in a group, the previous day, about the difference between boundaries and walls.

Boundaries were healthy limits, to help you let people in, coming from a place of self-care. Walls were unhealthy, extreme limits, built to keep people out, coming from a place of fear. Maybe he’d been building walls, when he only meant to have boundaries. Maybe it was time to take down the walls, a little. Build a door or a window, big enough for a giant ginger fuck to climb in. 

Not forever.  _ Obviously _ . But six years was a long time. Six years together, that would be something. 

He hadn’t even noticed when he’d started to think beyond today, beyond this week and this month. He was making plans now, having hopes and dreams and shit again. 

Could be the meds. Could be something else, some  _ one  _ else, too.


	10. Paranoia is killing me/And that's without you walking on and…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey focused on showing Ian around, delighting in being able to finally use his words, gathering up his facial expressions to hoard like a squirrel for the dark days that always came. 

[ Lost Cause - KennyHoopla ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RI4h-cs450o)

The waiting wasn’t the hardest part. All the songs had lied. The time passed the same way it always did, same speed, no changes except what he could mark in the increased mass in his body, the new muscle definition beginning to emerge, the slowly increasing clarity in his speech, going from basic grunts to words practically anyone with two brain cells could understand. 

His tongue got tired; he’d never experienced or expected that. It was like teachin’ a little kid to talk, the brain worked but the muscles had to learn their jobs. And of course the prison didn’t have any specialists or therapists to help him. They could barely manage to give him the correct little colorful pills every morning. 

The food was worse than the psych unit, but he knew the moment Terry got locked up, ‘cause Mandy started putting money on his books. More than he’d expected. He was flush with top ramen and jello cups, up to his asshole in disposable razors, which was fuckin’ hi-larious, given his history. He did a tidy business renting that shit out to poor fuckers less connected than he was.

But it was all just killing time, keeping his eyes open. So far Terry’s connections had made two attempts to fuck him over, one resulting in a physical altercation that Mickey had won handily enough. He was in such a low security joint that the only folks in here were soft fuckers Mickey could easily take in a fight. 

Iggy hadn’t made any attempt to call him, but Mickey understood, basically. It had been ingrained in them since birth to never snitch, never rat out family, never fuck over Terry. Now that he’d crossed that invisible line, even though Terry was out of reach, it would take time to- to realize that. To heal, he guessed. He had time. 

\---

Every day Mickey went out to the exercise yard, shot the shit with his new crew. Lifted some weights: picked em’ up, put em’ down. Walked the track, smoking. Watched the trees green up and thought about the unfurling leaves, as the air became temperate. Winter had passed him by inside, and now without his say-so, spring was upon them. Men were exchanging their winter sweatpants and hoodies for tee shirts, then bitchin’ if they felt a chill, or when the sudden rains fell.

There was other evidence of time’s relentless crawl. He was back to talkin’ full time. Some of the guys would complain, wishing he was still mute, and he’d fake a punch, all in good fun. The scar on his neck faded. It would never disappear, but he didn’t feel the need to swath his neck every day. Maybe he’d get a prison tat on his neck, cover that shit up. 

The working out and the regular meals, plus all the extra food from the commissary were making a difference. He’d swapped his medium pants for large, complaining vociferously. A small voice inside him wondered if Ian would still find him appealing, but he pushed it down. Gallagher would like whatever he gave him. Always had, always would. The rest of his scars stayed the same: red and silver, pink and white.

His hair grew out enough that he could get a haircut, short on the sides and longer on top. He kept a little pot of gel, styling it sometimes, looking at himself in the mirror from every angle. 

\---

Mickey didn’t get much warning, but he already had a plan in place. He’d long since bribed the guard to put Gallagher in his cell, so when he saw the red-head paraded through the prison, all Mickey had to do was give the right CO a nod and it was a done deal. 

He gave Ian a few minutes to settle in, wanting him to be surprised, pleased, not disappointed, then he couldn’t wait anymore and hurried up the metal steps to the cell. 

Outside the door, he paused, breathing lightly through his mouth. Through the window in the cell’s door, he could see that Gallagher had his head down on his arm, standing against the beds. The curve of his back was so familiar to Mickey; when had that happened? His hands itched to smooth across the polyester covered skin, but he clenched his fists tightly, wondering what Gallagher was thinking in that moment.

The door slid open, and Mickey stepped in, trying for confidence to cover up his fears. 

_ Open the window, boundaries not walls _ .

\---

The look on Gallagher’s face was everything Mickey’d hoped for, staring up at the ceiling every night after lights out. Like a flashlight coming on in a dark basement, disbelief and hope warring for dominance in his expression. He could see Gallagher glance around, checking for the reality in the situation, like he didn’t believe Mickey was actually there.

Hell, Mickey wasn’t totally sure he was there either. Maybe Terry’d laid him out in the visiting room, and this was all some elaborate coma dream. He shook his head, and reached for a cocksure expression.

“I rolled on my dad, and in exchange, guess who gets to pick where he gets locked up.”

Ian was staring at him like Mickey was a stranger, but he chalked it up to the talking. Ian had never heard his voice before, and the thought helped push a grin to his lips. 

“Holy fuck…” Ian looked on the verge of tears, and Mickey felt an answering softness in his chest. 

_ Not now. _

Instead, he stepped further into the cell, saying “Oh, hey,” as he pointed to the bunk beds, “I got bottom.” He looked directly at Ian, trying hard to keep his face serious. “So, you’re on top.” Mickey laid down, and stretched out, not looking at Ian’s face, body practically vibrating with anticipation. He rested his head on his folded hands, and waited.

Ian did another of those anxious glances around, but he was already biting his lip, then dove in, grabbing Mickey’s wrists and covering Mickey’s whole body with his own.

_ Fuck, that felt good. _

Mickey could tell him that now, but he waited, letting Ian look his fill, let him touch Mickey’s face and cup his cheek. It felt worshipful, like a fuckin’ religious experience.  _ It felt like love, maybe. _

He let that thought drift away, ran his hand through Ian’s hair, still waiting until Ian lowered his face, noses brushing, then their lips meeting at last. It was slow but fierce, and Mickey felt Ian’s cock hard in the cradle of his thighs. 

\---

They made it through the day, without ripping their clothes off, but only barely. Mickey focused on showing Ian around, delighting in being able to finally use his words, gathering up his facial expressions to hoard like a squirrel for the dark days that always came. 

Had always come, before. The future might be different, he reminded himself as he walked Ian around the workout machines, the track, introducing him to the crew. He wanted to show Ian not only where they lived but who he was here, someone to be respected, even if it was only by these men who’d never committed any real violence. When meal time came, they went through the line like every other inmate, getting their minimal helpings of mush and carbs, but at the end of the line, Mickey held up his hand, indicating that they stop and wait a moment. But he didn’t say anything, didn’t want to spoil the surprise.

A man in a hairnet hurried out, and after a quick, whispered consultation, came back with a plastic wrapped tray, swapping it out for Mickey’s. Then came an awkward pause, where Mickey had to stare the guy down, and puff up his muscles a little, but the whole song and dance repeated, and Ian got a plastic wrapped tray, too. It wasn’t much, but shit on a shingle was a far cry from what everyone else was eating that day- it looked like a pile of cold, gray puke. Plus, Mickey and Ian’s trays each came with their own little cups of jello. Not red, today, but that was ok. 

Gallagher was a little quiet, but that was ok, too. New place, new faces, new Mickey, really. It was a lot to take in. Their physical reunion still waited, and Mickey could feel his body heating just thinking about it, so he pushed the desire away, the craving to touch and be touched, fuck, even those kisses he’d fought to passionately against now seemed like golden coins waiting for him. If he took advantage, stood a little too close to Ian, brushed their knuckles together when they sat at the table eating, fuck, kicked his ankle once or twice, who could blame him? This was  _ Ian _ . They were  _ together _ . He could take care of him now, finally show him how he felt, if still not with his words, with his actions.

After dinner, there was an hour of mandatory quiet time outside the cells. It could be used to study, for church shit, AA groups, but not working out or playin’ games. Board games. Mickey had other types of games in mind. He led Ian to the library, where he sometimes took a shift reshelving books. It was the easiest gig, plus you got a swipe card to get into the library that worked around the clock. 

Ian’s green eyes were wide as Mickey rolled the heavy cart down the narrow aisle of shelves, then bent over, throwing out his ass in the most provocative way he could manage as he bent down to shelve “How to Win Friends and Influence People!” next to “How to be Popular.”

Easy enough. Fists and muscles, keep your own counsel, and keep your shit locked down. Maybe he’d write a book someday.

The thought had distracted him, but the feeling of hot hands holding his waist, the heat seeping through his jumpsuit and the feeling of Ian’s cock hard against his ass brought Mickey back to the present. His little game had worked; Ian was whispering the filthiest shit, wanting to fuck him here and now. Mickey twisted in his arms until they were face to face, back pressed to the old books, and bit his lip, glancing up through his lashes at Ian. He knew exactly what he was doing- just trying to rile Gallagher up, make some promises he could follow through on in less than an hour, but for now-

He went up on his tiptoes and dropped a kiss on an astonished Ian’s nose. 

“We gotta get back for count. After lights out though- game on, bitch.” He winked as Ian’s hand relaxed reluctantly letting him go. That power, to incite and then bank desire in the other man, that was heady shit, entirely new to Mickey. No one had ever looked at him like he was precious or perfect. Only Ian saw him that way.

\---

Their first fuck that night was fantastic, leaving them sleepy and thrilled as they drifted off in the same bunk for the first time.  The next time they awoke, in the still darkness, there was touching. Of course, they’d just spent the night wrapped in each other’s arms, but this was different. If their sleeping touches had been filled with comfort, their waking touches were filled with possibilities.

Ian woke first. He could  feel Mickey’s quiet breath against his nape, Mickey’s t-shirt clad chest against his bare back, Mickey’s hips pressing into his buttocks, Mickey’s arms holding him close. As he snuggled back into that warm embrace, Ian felt Mickey’s cock begin to swell. His breath caught, then released. Ian took Mickey’s hand, resting over his heart, and laced their fingers together.

The man let out a pleased, sleepy hum, and kissed the back of Ian’s neck. Emboldened, Ian brought Mickey’s fingers to his lips. He kissed each one in turn, then pulled the thumb into his mouth and gave an experimental suck. 

Mickey gasped, suddenly fully awake. His hips bucked forward involuntarily, pressing his cock against Ian’s ass. God, that ass. How could such a thin man have such a magnificently plush ass? 

Ian’s tongue was doing wicked things to Mickey’s thumb, probing the nail groove, flicking over the knuckle, swirling around in a way that made his cock twitch in vicarious pleasure. As his teeth scraped over the pad of Mickey’s thumb, Mickey gritted his teeth against the moan that threatened to spill out.=, so he pulled his hand away, turning in Ian’s arms, bringing them face to face. That’s what he wanted, oddly. Ian’s face. A face that had become important to him. Ian’s eyes — pupils wide, irises gray-green in the half light — gazed back at him with a look of fondness and wonder that was painful to accept. Ian’s lips were parted, kissable. Their mouths met in another of those wordless conversations.

Kissing Ian was a discussion. The tenderness with which their lips met, the yearning, Ian’s obvious desire told Mickey everything he needed to know. Mickey only had one word running through his own mind: yeah. 

He didn’t think he’d spoken aloud, but somehow Ian heard him. Suddenly Mickey was on his back, and Ian’s hands were everywhere —tangling in his hair, cupping his cheeks, caressing his chest, teasing his nipples, sliding lower and lower… 

Mickey felt like a freshly shaken snow globe — thoughts, emotions, and sensations swirling wildly. Ian was the hand that shook him, quite literally. Ian’s hands on his body made Mickey tremble.

But Ian was also gravity. He pulled Mickey in, causing him to settle. Ian was a safe place to land. Like the last snow of winter, Mickey let himself fall. 

Ian ran his hands down that long expanse of pale skin, over taut muscles that quivered at his touch. Mickey could tell he was aching to explore every inch of his body with his hands, his lips, his tongue. He wanted to drink Mickey in, to absorb him, to fill and be filled to overflowing. Mickey felt the same craving, to ingest Ian until no part of them would ever be truly parted from the other. 

Ian covered Mickey’s body with his own. Mickey’s body thrummed with pleasure. Ian’s long, heavy weight on him was a like freedom: everything he’d never known he’d needed. How naive he’d been, to think that having found this once, he could go without it for any length of time. This physical and emotional connection with Ian was better than food, better than drugs. Holding him was better than fucking any woman on earth, and kissing him- well. Mickey didn’t have any comparisons. Better than jello.

As Ian rocked down against him, his quiet murmurings resolved into words, plans and dirty talk that Mickey’s ears strained to catch. Instead of sounding crude, though, his mouth transformed the words into a new language, one only for them.

Ian’s hips knew this dance, rocking down against Mickey’s of their own volition, sliding their cocks together with delicious friction. What had begun as a full-body experience was slowly coalescing into a single point of exquisite focus. Ian had braced himself on his right arm, freeing his left hand to wrap around both of their cocks, squeezing them together, Mickey’s prodigious amount of precum slicking them both up, easing the slide.

Mickey brought one hand down to join his, while clutching his ass with the other. Ian groaned, thrusting into the tight circle of their fists, fast, faster. Mickey arched beneath him, crying out, cock pulsing against Ian’s. Wet heat spilled out over their hands where they met. Mickey would never be able to say who came first. He just knew when Ian’s arm gave out, and he collapsed down on top of him. Their softening cocks, trapped between their bellies, twitched in unison. 

Sleep stretched out like a vast chasm, and Mickey was slowly tipping over the edge, warm and sated in a way he’d never experienced before.

“Mick?” Ian had slid in beside him, taking the large spoon position between Mickey and the cold wall.

“Hmmm?”

“That was incredible.” 

So many words, when all Mickey wanted to do was sleep until they could get it up again… “Mmmhmm…”

“Can we do it again?” Those words, warm and damp at his neck had Mickey thinking about all the things they were gonna do together, and he felt himself drifting off again. But Ian had asked him a question, and he worked hard to formulate an answer. He grinned into the empty space of the cell, reaching a hand back to pull Ian closer. 

“Yeah, man. Totally. But I think I’m going to pass out, now, so we might have to wait until I regain consciousness.”

\---

It was nearly dawn when they woke up again, still entwined on the lower bunk. Neither knew who started the fuck that time, only that they were face to face, staring so hard that their bodies seemed like mere afterthoughts. The undercurrent was a long-overdue discussion that seemed to be coming to a head as their bodies chased their climaxes.

"Tell me," Ian panted, driving into Mickey's ass at just the perfect angle, just the perfect speed.

Mickey moaned, luxurious, wanton, and raked his nails down Ian's back. He'd already left teeth marks and bruises scattered over Ian's body, but it wasn't enough. He wanted Ian marked for days, something to look at, something to touch as he jerked off.

"I'd wait. I'd wait for you -- Ian, fuck, Ian, now, now, now."

"You're still talking," Ian said and nipped at Mickey's ear. Mickey wasn't the only one who was leaving marks tonight. Their first night. "I want you past that before I let you come."

"Fuck you." His body was a twisted, snarled up knot of lust only a climax would unravel. Hours of this, of freezing when the guards had walked by, keeping their voices down, hours of Ian mapping his body with meticulous, desperate care. 

"Please, Ian. Please --"

"Tell me."

Mickey shook his head in frustration, not denial. "I'd wait, I'd wait," he chanted breathlessly. "Ian -- believe me, okay?"

"I want to," Ian said, the words muffled against Mickey's hair. "You don't know what it was like to wake up and find you gone. Gone where I couldn’t see you, hear you, touch you --"

"Shush, just -- don't. And yeah, I do."

Ian thrust inside him again, the joy gone, and Mickey slid his hands down to still the next mechanical rock forward. His arousal became a distraction and he ignored it the way he was ignoring the scratchy blanket under him and the telltale squeak of the bunk's springs every time they moved.

"Okay, stop that for now. I need you to tell me something."

"What?"

"If I hadn’t gotten this, us, together -- if I’d walked away, never written, never called, hooked up with the first guy I saw that I liked in here -- what would you have done?"

He felt every muscle in Ian's body clench and rode out the pain of three brutally fast, deep strokes, delivered with every ounce of strength Ian had. "I'd --I'd --" Ian turned his head away and he shuddered. "I don't know. Survive. Wait to get released. Come after you."

"Kill me? Hurt me? Punish me?" Mickey demanded.

Ian eased nearly all the way out of him and then sank back in slowly enough that Mickey's answering moan was one of pleasure. He'd hurt tomorrow, hell, for days, but he didn't care.

"No."

"Tell me."

"Beg you. Crawl." Ian was gasping out the words, his hips moving slowly, his face contorted. "Mickey -- What do you want me to say? You know what I'd do."

"Anything it took to keep me."

"Anything it took," Ian confirmed.

"That still scares me."

"You think I don't know that?" Ian mouthed at Mickey's nipple, sucking at the reddened, swollen skin. "Fuck, it still scares me."

"If I lose you for good, it'll kill me," Ian said. "I can't -- I don't want that to happen."

"Why will it?" Mickey whispered. "Why do you need me that much?"

Ian reared up, his arms straight, taking his weight, and stared down at him. "Because you're mine."

Mickey shook his head. Words. Truths, yes, but not the right ones. "I need more than that from you. I know, but tonight, I want to hear it. Humor me."

"Because I love you." The words were reluctant, almost shamed.

"You've never said that before." Neither had Mickey, but he didn't need to. Ian knew.

“Say it back, bitch.” Ian nipped at his neck, still thrusting, driving in him to find the perfect angle that would have Mickey mindless, saying anything to come.

_ Mickey realized that he didn’t feel like he was in his body- he felt as if he were floating around on the ceiling, watching himself be fucked from cool, dispassionate candor. Gallagher loved him. And they’d get to wake up to this, with each other, every day.  _

_ Had anyone ever loved Mickey Milkovich? Anyone who’d know him this well? Both his failings and his force? No, he concluded, still watching their flesh writhe in concert. Not until Ian came into his life. Now he wasn’t just the object of love, but able to give it to. He was protected and had someone to protect. They would be safe here. As safe as he could make them, he vowed. _

The force of his orgasm sucked him back into his body, and he felt Ian pumping his load deep in him, the heat and wetness a new type of pleasure enhancement, drawing his climax out further, teasing it until the cord snapped and he was spent, empty, and covered in sweaty, panting Gallagher. 

Had he said it?

Mickey turned his head, lips pressed to the helix of Ian’s ear, mouthing words he couldn’t get out yet, his throat feeling as blocked as it had all those weeks before. He closed his eyes. He could do this. 

“ _ Love you, too _ .”

[ Feels Right - Biig Piig ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IbMMce4QwT8)

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, you guys, I can't believe this one is done. 
> 
> For an offshoot story, this sure took over my mind and turned into such a full, rich, complex character study. One of my favorites to write, for sure. Thank you to my readers and commenters- you kept me writing even when it got hard and dark. 
> 
> Depression is my baggage, and this Mickey - we have a lot in common, ok?
> 
> I'd LIKE to say I'll have fewer WIPS now that this is done, but that's a bald-faced lie. I have All You Knead is Love, Wrongly Right, Love Guarenteed AND I am co-authoring future chapters of Not Just PenPals with FYeahGallavich. My Big Bang Fic is also progressing- it's big, something this fandom hasn't seen yet. ;)
> 
> Happy Holidays, Happy New Year, and I can't WAIT to get vaccinated! <3


End file.
